


The Heart's Long Peace

by PR Zed (przed)



Series: Some Desperate Glory [3]
Category: Take That
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2011-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war ends.</p><p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/188636">Some Desperate Glory</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart's Long Peace

**Part One – Armistice**

They all remember exactly what they were doing when they heard the news. When they found out, finally, and at long last, that the war was over.

* * *

Mark is at the bank. The same bank he left to sign up to fight the good fight. The bank that took him back as a clerk once the army was done with him, a wounded thing good for little else but calculating sums and sending out letters.

He is the only young man at the bank. The other clerks, the tellers, the manager are all either older men or young women. None of them have been in the trenches, none of them quite understand what he's seen, what he's been through. They all try to be kind, but there are days that he finds their kindness the cruelest thing of all.

At least they all know by now not to mention his limp, the halting gait that has ruined him for the dancing he loved so well. They know not to talk about the way he sometimes flinches when someone slams a door.

He is sitting at his desk, balancing a ledger, his fingers stained with ink, when the bells begin to ring. Every bell in Oldham, ringing all at once, the sound so overwhelming that it is a struggle not to stop his ears with his hands, not to crouch, trembling, under his desk as if hiding from an enemy barrage.

There is whispering and talking and shouting, and then Miss Fincham approaches his desk. She's young, younger even than he is, and she has always treated him thoughtfully.

"Isn't it wonderful, Mr Owen," she says, and her eyes alight with a fierce joy. "The war is over."

Mark stares at her in horror, unable to take in what her words mean. The war can't be over. Not for him. He spent the past two years trying to put the war behind him before he finally faced the fact that there will always be some part of him stuck there, in the trenches, in no man's land, terrified and in pain.

He wishes Rob were here. Rob can always drag him back from whatever abyss he's stumbled near. But Rob is on duty at the hospital. Rob's in Liverpool. For now he is alone, alone with his thoughts and his past.

He puts his head down on his desk and weeps.

* * *

Rob is walking through the halls of the hospital. The Alder Hey Orthopedic Hospital is in Liverpool, but he doesn't hold that against the place. They treated Mark here, put his leg back together, got him walking and sent him home to Manchester. Rob still works here. Knowing his story, the staff protected him from the army's bureaucracy when he got here, and helped him get an official transfer as soon as it could be managed.

He has spent the morning as he usually does: pushing carts of dirty linen; delivering medicines; doing whatever errands the nurses and doctors send him on. He is walking down one of the long hallways when he sees another orderly running towards him, a great grin on his face. Yates is a big, bluff Scouser who reminds him more than a little bit of Howard. He taught Rob all he needed to know when he arrived, helped him avoid the wrong officers and make friends with the right ones.

"It's over, Rob," Yates, says, clapping him on the back so hard that Rob fears there'll be bruises there tomorrow.

"What's over?" Rob asks, confused.

"The bloody war, you Manc bastard. The generals have signed a bloody peace treaty. Or armistice. Or some bloody thing." Yates is already moving again, heading down to the wards to bring his news to the rest of the lads. "Whatever they call it, it means the fighting's over," he calls back over his shoulder.

Rob stands where he is, frozen in place as he thinks about what this means. No more fighting. No more men brought here in pieces for them to try and put back together. They'll be able to come home, now, Howard and Jay and the captain, and all the others still stuck over there. And maybe, just maybe, this will end Mark's nightmares.

He'd thought everything would be better once they got home. Had thought his prayers had been answered when Mark survived and recovered, when he was discharged from the hospital and discharged from the army. Had thought he'd been given everything he could ask for the first time he and Mark had kissed, the first time he'd unbuttoned Mark's shirt and placed a hand on the pale flesh of his chest, the first time they'd fallen into bed together.

But that first night, and most nights after, Mark had woken up, covered in a sheen of sweat, shaking and silent. No matter how much Rob had asked, Mark had never told him about the nightmares. After a while, Rob had stopped asking. He'd just hold him tightly, stroke his hair and kiss him until his shaking calmed and he drifted back to sleep. Then Rob had stood guard over him until the sun rose, ready to fight off the demons that chased Mark's sleep like hounds after a rabbit, even as he wondered if the nights when Rob wasn't there were better or worse.

He hears murmurs and shouts and cheering coming from the wards as the news spreads throughout the hospital. He shakes himself, and resumes his journey down the hall with renewed purpose. He'll request leave today, beat everyone else to the punch. He has three days coming, and the lieutenant owes him a favour. If he manages it well, and if the trains cooperate, he could have nearly all of those three days with Mark.

They'll celebrate properly. Celebrate and plan for when this is well and truly over, when Rob is demobbed, and can come back to Manchester and make sure he's there to stand guard over Mark's dreams every night.

* * *

Gary is in his dugout, sitting at his makeshift desk, when Private Tipton brings him the news. An armistice has been signed. The war is over.

Not soon enough, though.

He puts down his pen and looks at the letter in front of him. A letter to the family of a private killed only yesterday. A good lad he'd been. A good lad who will never return home. Whose family will be left with nothing but a name on the wall of a church memorial instead of a living, breathing son and husband.

Gary bows his head and tries to sort out how he feels, even as he hears the murmurs swell into shouts, into cheers in the trench outside. The men need him out there. They need him to be their voice, their focus, their leader, but he feels nothing but hollow inside.

He wishes Howard were here. Him and Jay both, since you never had one without the other. Wishes they were here to give him a clap on the back, tell him everything would be fine now. But they're not, and they can't and it isn't. He's here on his own.

His new lieutenant comes into the dug out, asking "Have you heard?" and "Isn't it grand?" and "Would you like to talk to the men?" Jenkins is new to the front, new enough that he's barely lost any friends here in the mud and the cold. New enough that he seems impossibly young to Gary. Younger even than Mark had been, was it only two years ago?

But then in other ways, Mark had always seemed an old soul.

He seems older still in the letters he sends to Howard and Jason. Letters they share with their captain. Their friend. The letters tell of his days in the bank, the regular rhythms of home, and Rob's visits, but there is always a sadness underlying them. A melancholy that is in such marked contrast to the friendly boy Gary first knew that sometimes he weeps at the difference. Then Jason will put an arm 'round his shoulder and Howard will make him a cup of tea, and they'll all give thanks that Mark is well out of the fighting. Him and Rob both.

Rob's letter are anything but sad. They are as full of life as the boy himself had always been. Full of the unspoken acknowledgement of how lucky he is to have escaped the front. Full of Mark, as well. Every time he has leave it seems he fetches up at Mark's. Howard and Jason had been right that those two would save each other.

Jenkins is speaking again. "Sir, are you well?"

He can put things off no longer. He rises to his feet, feeling three times his twenty-four years, and moves to join the celebrations.

* * *

Howard and Jason are at a dressing station, two miles back from the front lines. Howard watches, gnawing on his lower lip, as a doctor cleans and stitches the wound in Jay's arm. A nasty slice from a German bayonet, but not life-threatening. Not even bad enough to warrant a stay in hospital. Howard knows they'll be sent back up to the line once the doctor has done his work.

He looks at Jay and feels a frown forming on his face. Jay had always been skinny, but now... There's more meat on a butcher's pencil. They've both been wounded--their luck ran out just after Mark's did, and they both now bear more scars than Howard likes to consider--but it always seems to take the most from Jay. And it hadn't helped when the poor bastard had got the flu. It had scared Howard to death at the time, three days of Jay burning up with fever as other members of their platoon came down with the same thing, their lips gone blue, coughing up blood. After a while, Howard lost track of how many men in their trench died from the bloody disease. Jay recovered, but there are days, like today, when it seems there's nowt left of him but a ghost.

Howard winces as the doctor pulls a bit too hard on the needle, and Jay picks that moment to look up.

"Don't look like that," Jay says. "It not you he's stitching up like an old coat."

"If you were an old coat, I'd 'ave slung you in a bin ages ago," Howard says, banishing his worry and Jay's with good-natured slagging.

"Good thing I'm not an old coat, then, isn't it?" And in spite of the pain in Jay's eyes, there's a sparkle in the smile he gifts Howard with.

Any response Howard might have made is interrupted by an orderly bursting breathlessly into the station.

"They've done it," the man says, his expression showing that he doesn't quite believe his own news.

"Done what, man?" the doctor says without looking up. He's clearly irritated at being interrupted, and Howard is irritated at anything that might hurt Jason.

"Signed an armistice, sir. The war's over."

* * *

Jason is concentrating on not flinching as his arm is stitched up, so at first he doesn't entirely take in the orderly's words. But he does see Howard's reaction. He always sees Howard's reaction.

Howard freezes for a moment, and even then Jason knows what's coming. Knows How's legs are about to collapse under him.

He ignores the doctor's objections as he pushes him away, and is at Howard's side only a second after he hits the ground. Ignoring the pull from the stitches, he wraps his arms around him as Howard's breaths comes in hard fought sobs.

"It'll be all right," he tells Howard, whispering close into his ear. "It'll all be all right now."

 _The war is over_ , the orderly has said, and Jason exults in the news, even as he understands How's reaction. He understands that Howard sometimes locks down his feelings when things are bad, are awful, and then ambush him when the danger is over. He understands why Howard can't stop weeping now.

And yet, upset as he is, Howard still looks after Jason. He clutches Jason's good arm, taking care to avoid his wound, and buries his face in Jason's shoulder.

"Home," Jay says to him, his voice soft in Howard's ear. "We'll be going home."

* * *

**Part Two – Return**

Rob has lost count of how many times he's read the letter. It's not much, just a few short lines scrawled by Howard on what looks like little better than a scrap of paper he found lying about in the transit camp, but it's the best news Rob's had since Armistice Day.

>   
> 
> 
> _Jay wanted to write this, but he'd write a bloody book before he got to the point, and we only have two minutes to get this in the day's post. The point is, we're coming home. All of us. Me, Jay and Gary. We'll be on the afternoon train on Tuesday, at London Road station. Come if you can. If you can't, we'll come and find you._  
> 

I can't believe How's calling the captain, Gary, Rob thinks. And then, Tuesday they'll be home. Tomorrow. They'll all be home tomorrow.

 _Come if you can_ , How wrote. As if anything would stop him. Or Mark either. Though it might be better for Mark if he did stay home.

Rob looks down at Mark, sleeping beside him in their bed, the blankets pulled up to his nose. Even in sleep, Mark's face looks drawn, marred by lines of pain that never seem to disappear. But at least his nightmares are less frequent. It's helped, Rob thinks, having him here every night for the past three months. Having Rob to comfort him and pet him and love him when the memories become too much.

Though it makes things hard in other ways, Rob is more than a little thankful that flats and jobs are hard to come by. No one batted an eye when he announced he was sharing rooms with his best friend from the army. Not that he'd had much choice. His mum's house was full when he was finally demobbed, and he's yet to find a job, so it was Mark's flat or sleep rough in the park. His mum is grateful to Mark for giving her son a place to sleep, even if it means having him in Oldham. She's adopted Mark as one of her own, threatening to feed him up every time they go to Stoke for a visit. Rob wonders how she'd react if she knew what their sleeping arrangements were really like. Then again, his mum's a sharp one. Perhaps she already knows.

Mark frowns and turns in his sleep, his hands coming up as if to protect himself from some invisible attacker. Rob puts the letter aside and gently rubs Mark's back, whispering in his ear, telling him he's safe. Mark quiets immediately, turning into Rob's chest. Rob wraps his arms around Mark, enjoying the warmth of his body snuggled against him.

It's moments like this that seem to erase everything he's gone through: the trenches, the barrages, the attacks and counter-attacks. Everything.

He kisses the top of Mark's head, closes his eyes, and waits for sleep to come.

* * *

The Channel crossing has been long and stormy, and they're all tired and worn out from the rough seas, from the time in the transit camp, from the last four bloody years of fighting, but Gary doesn't use that as an excuse to sit idle like some of the officers do. He walks up and down the lines of men waiting for the train to arrive, making sure everyone's all right, everyone has what they need. It's what he does. It's what he's always done.

He tries to be even-handed in the attention he gives to each man, but he knows he's not impartial. Howard and Jason, especially Jason, get more than their fair share of his time. They're his friends, the best friends he's ever had, and he'll do anything for them. He pulled rank to get Jason off the cold deck and into a warm cabin during the Channel crossing. And he's the reason they're both, finally and at long last, being demobbed.

So far, only the slip men are being sent home, men lucky enough to be in possession of a slip of paper that proves they have a job waiting for them, and neither Howard nor Jason had the crucial document. The factory Howard had worked for before the war is firing people now, not hiring them back. And Jason had only ever had casual work, even before the war.

But Gary's father manages a factory, and Gary had asked, even begged him to find work for his friends. It had taken time--there were few enough positions, and hundreds of men for every job advertised--but two weeks ago the slips for Howard and Jason had arrived, along with one for Gary himself for a supervisor position he has no intention of taking, and the three of them had begun planning in earnest for their return home.

Now they're on home soil, with only a train ride separating them from Manchester.

There is a sudden stirring on the platform, and Gary looks up to see the train pulling into the station. He hurries to where he last left Howard and Jason. They're still there, Jason nearly asleep on his feet, his meagre reserves done in by this journey, and Howard with his arm around Jason's waist, keeping him upright.

"We're nearly home, lads," Gary says.

Howard merely nods, all his concentration clearly on Jason. Jason gives a weak smile and says "Not before time."

The train puffs and shudders and stops on the platform, and before any orders can be given, anxious and excited men are piling into the carriages. Gary leads the way into a carriage for enlisted men, his rank clearing the path before him and letting him secure seats for his friends. He helps Howard get Jason settled, and gives them both a pat on the shoulder. Jason is asleep nearly immediately, all his energy used up at last. Gary knows he must leave. He belongs with the officers, not taking up a seat meant for an enlisted man, even if this is where his heart is.

"I'll see you at the other end," he says, biting his lip as he awkwardly turns to leave the carriage. He's stopped by a firm grip on his wrist, Howard, holding him fast.

They don't speak, either of them, but they don't have to. Gary puts his free hand over Howard's and gives it a squeeze, then he's gone before either of them can embarrass themselves in front of the other men.

Gary spends the journey to Manchester with his thoughts firmly on the two men in the car behind him, and the two boys they'd sent ahead two years ago, the four of them safe and, mostly, whole. After what he's seen it's a small enough victory, keeping four men safe, but he finds it's the only victory he cares about.

* * *

The train carriage jerks and Jason wakes up from a dream of mud and noise and alarm to find himself leaning on Howard's shoulder. How is sleeping, his arm slung around Jason's shoulders, and Jason's own right hand is resting on Howard's leg.

He blinks and shifts, and Howard is immediately awake beside him.

"You all right?" Howard asks, his eyes full of silent concern.

Jason nods and smiles, willing Howard to see that he's all right, really he is. He looks out the train window to avoid the fact of Howard's concern, and drinks in the sight of English farms growing green under English rain. After the battlefields of France and Belgium, all mud and craters and shattered trees, it's the most perfect view he could imagine. It makes him forget the ache in his knee and the catch in his chest that never seems to go away.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Jason says, patting Howard's leg before he sits up properly, reluctantly disengaging their limbs. Howard says nothing. He simply follows Jason's gaze and nods, letting himself lean into Jason's arm in a way that Jason knows is anything but accidental.

They sit like that as they travel through the Cheshire countryside, quiet and content in each other's company, as they move ever closer to Manchester. They both ignore the commotion around them, the jokes and laughter and bluff good nature of soldiers returning home after far too long in Europe's killing fields, instead concentrating on the countryside and their awareness of each other. Jason watches as the houses become more frequent and closer together, then, at last, they are in Manchester proper, with the train yards of London Road station looming up ahead of them.

Five months he'd been waiting for this day. Five months since the armistice was signed, since they thought they'd be going home in days, not weeks or months. And now Jason can hardly believe it is happening, even as the platform comes into sight.

"Will they be there to meet us, do you think?" Jason asks as the carriage shudders and the train begins to slow. There is no need to explain who "they" are.

"They'll be there," Howard says with quiet assurance. "I sent the letter, didn't I?"

Jason gives him a look that tells Howard exactly what he thinks of his idea of a letter, but he doesn't complain out loud. After all, Howard is everything to him. Without Howard, he'd have died, whether in the transit camp, or in the trench, or in some water-filled shell crater. Without him now, he knows his heart will die. It matters little whether he can write a proper letter or not.

"I wish you'd let me tell Gary," Jason says. Howard had wanted Rob and Mark turning up to be a surprise for Gary, but Jason was never big on surprises. He always liked to see what was around the corner.

"Tell Gary what?" There's a hand on his shoulder, and Jason looks up to see Gary smiling down at him.

"Did the other officers give you the boot?" Howard says, deflecting Gary's question, his expression stern, but with a twinkle in his eye.

"They're boring, them," Gary says with a smile that shows he's in on the joke. But that's why they finally became friends, the three of them. Gary was never like the other officers. He was always in on the joke. And he always fought for the best for his men. "Thought I'd come back and see how you are."

"We're fine," Jason says, and that's when he sees it, a moment of silent communication between Gary and Howard: a raised eyebrow from Gary, and slight nod from Howard. He knows it's him they're worried about, and he loves them for it, even as he hates the need for their worry. He hates how is body has betrayed him. He vows to get strong again, to heal, so there'll be no need for Howard's protection and Gary's concern.

Gary looks on the verge of saying more, but the train is pulling into the station and a din fills the carriage as soldiers too long from their homeland and their families roar their pleasure. Men surge to their feet, pound each other on the back, shake hands. They rush to the windows to see if they can catch a glimpse of loved ones.

* * *

Howard turns his head, and sees the throngs of people on the platform, men, women and children waving and smiling and crying. He reaches out and takes hold of Jay's hand, trusting that no one will notice in the chaos of the carriage. No one does but Gary, who pats his shoulder and gives them both a look of silent understanding.

They stand and are pushed towards the carriage doors, the three of them, and emerge onto the platform. The sound outside is even more tumultuous, even more overwhelming. Howard takes hold of Jay's arm, offering him needed support as they push through the crowds, through men in the arms of their wives and mothers, their brothers and sisters.

A space opens around them as they hit an eddy in the crowd. Howard catches a glimpse of khaki, of green eyes, of a hesitant wave. Rob and Mark, both in uniform, stand before them.

Rob has grown up since they last saw him. He's taller, with the build of a man, not a boy. He still has the cheeky look of mischief he always did, but it's tempered now with experience. With compassion. Mark, though, has changed in ways Howard is sorry to see. He looks sad. He looks...old.

He turns to Jay in time to see a look pass between him and Mark, a look of like recognizing like. They're both too thin, both show the ravages of pain. Both are marked, Jason by the piratical scar on one cheek where a bayonet caught him last year, and Mark by the limp that forces him to walk with a stick now.

But today, of all days, isn't for sad thoughts. Mark and Jason seem to remember that, even if Howard hasn't. Mark's expression changes to that brilliant smile Howard still remembers. Jason grabs him and Gary and pulls them forward, even as Rob yells and Mark waves. Howard is nothing but happy as the five of them hug and cry and whoop.

* * *

A week later, they're together again, stuck around a table in the back of a tea shop. Mark is happily jammed in the corner, with Rob on one side of him and Captain Barlow on the other. Howard and Jason sit across from them all, closer together than they need to be, still the old married couple Mark remembers.

"Gary. Call me Gary," the captain is saying for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time Mark tries to remember that Gary is no longer his commanding officer. Rob, being Rob, has long since leapfrogged from that requested informality to calling him Gaz. A good-natured slagging match breaks out between the two of them, and soon enough they're all laughing, all gleeful, until Mark laughs at the wrong time and inhales his tea and has to have his back pounded by Rob as he splutters and coughs.

But even a tea shop near drowning can't spoil his good spirits.

He sits back, leans against Rob, and watches his friends, content beyond words to have them all back safely on England's shores.

He knows things aren't perfect. Rob is frustrated by the lack of a job. He spent the last of his childhood on the front; now he wants to forge his own life, to make his own way without depending on his mum or Mark. Not that either begrudge him anything they have.

Howard and Jason have jobs, courtesy of Gary's father, but as yet no place to live. They're both camped out at their parents' homes, but everyone knows they want a flat together. Mark calculates whether he could stick an extra mattress in his tiny flat and thinks they could just about fit one in the sitting room. It would do for now, if the two of them didn't mind sharing. Watching How sling his arm around Jay, and Jay lean into the support, Mark doesn't reckon they'll mind at all.

Howard is the same as ever, still gruff and silent and ridiculously shy when strangers are about. Jason, however, is different. He's skinnier than Mark remembers, and self-conscious as he never was before. He flinches when he notices the waitress averting her eyes from the scar that mars his face, and Mark wishes he had the nerve to give the silly girl a talking to, to make her realize what a beautiful man Jay still is.

Gary is the one he doesn't know nearly as well as he'd like to, but he's confident that will soon change. After all, he knows him through Howard and Jason's letters, through the kindnesses he's given his friends. And it was Gary who sent Rob off in an ambulance with him, ensuring Mark would have his best friend near as he recovered. Gary is the finest gentleman Mark's ever met. Which was more than could be said for many other officers he encountered at the front.

"Oi, Markie," Rob says, elbowing him gently in the ribs. "Why so quiet?" Rob ruffles his hair. "What's going on in that funny little loaf of yours?"

"I dunno," Mark says, suddenly shy about confessing his feelings, his hopes, his fears. But there is one thing he can tell Rob and the others. "I guess I was just thinking how happy I am."

Rob's face takes on an expression of pure joy. Glancing around the table, Mark sees Jason clutch tightly at Howard's hand, sees a suspicious glistening in Gary's eyes.

It's enough, it's all he could have hoped for, it's too much.

It's perfect.  



End file.
